


Spotting Sherlock

by paradigmfinch



Series: Spotting Sherlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual John Watson, Closeted Character, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Nice Mary Morstan, References to Shakespeare, Teenlock, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradigmfinch/pseuds/paradigmfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock acts. John runs the spotlight.</p><p>[Teenlock theatre AU because I couldn't help myself.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: This story has implied / off-screen child abuse of a major character.
> 
> Not beta-ed or brit-picked.
> 
> This story is finished! I will be posting chapters as they get a final polish.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary convinces John to join the theatre. John meets some new people.

“As you know, these last few months haven’t been easy for me, and dating you…Dating you would be the best thing that could possibly happen to me. So, if you’ll have me Mary… could you see your way, um. If you could see your way to possibly-”

“No way! I was _way_ more suave than that!” John shouted over her.

“Hush, John, you’re interrupting the story,” Mary said, undeterred.

“And I did not go on and on like that about how wonderful you were. You make it sound like I was asking for your hand or something!”

“Well, you were asking me to be your fake girlfriend, that’s pretty important don’t you think?” Mary winked.

“I never did get around to actually asking,” John mused. “That weird French waiter interrupted us.”

“That _cute_ French waiter, you mean.”

“Oi! Way to mention another cute guy when you’re talking about our first date.”

“John, darling? Two things. First of all, we aren’t really dating.” An evil smile came over Mary’s face. “And second - you were checking him out, too.”

“A little quieter, please!” John hissed, as his eyes roved around the cafeteria. He continued in a whisper, “I actually would prefer it if the entire school _didn’t_ find out I was gay.”

“You’re _not_ gay. It’s called bisexual, darling.” Mary was the only person besides his sister Harry who knew John’s orientation. He hadn’t told her; she’d figured it out when John had admired the backside of one of her dates rather obviously. Not one of John’s finer moments, as he’d be the first to admit. “We can talk about something else, though since you’re in such a mood. How were football tryouts?”

John groaned, “Brutal. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t make the team anyways,” he said, glum.

“What do you care? You’ve said it before, you hate the football blokes. Why not try out for rugby again?”

John winced. Mary was right, the football team were a bunch of tossers. And John _had_ loved rugby - it was hard work, just muddy enough, and completely thrilling. It had kept him busy for hours after school, and he’d made some good friends. Until-

“My dad said it would ‘Turn me into a pansy, rolling around in the dirt with a bunch of blokes every day.’” He quoted, then sighed. His dad was a bigoted jerk, but John needed to stay on his good side until he finished school in two years. After that, John had everything planned out - if he enlisted, the army would pay for his university and medical training. He’d spend a few years in service, and either continue on or return home to England, a qualified doctor. But until then, he had to make a few sacrifices to stay under his dad’s roof. Harry, his 19 year old sister, was living proof of what would happen if he didn’t.

As if sensing where his thoughts had wandered, Mary asked, “How’s Harry doing?”

“Getting by at Clara’s place while I try and talk some sense into mum and dad. If I can convince Harry to pretend she’s bi, I think we have a shot at getting her home.”

Mary sent a pointed look his way.

John continued, “Hypocritical, maybe. She definitely won’t be able to date any girls in front of our parents, but maybe if they think it’s just a passing phase, that there’s still a chance that Harry’ll end up with a man…” The plan sounded, if possible, even worse out loud than it had in his head. On top of that, there was little chance of getting Harry to do anything she didn’t want to do. Harry had been out and proud at school for nearly a year before dad had caught her snogging Clara on the couch. He’d shouted himself hoarse before physically throwing her from the house. Mum had stood by, crying uselessly about what she’d done wrong to deserve this from her daughter. John had confronted his dad. To make a long story short, he’d been bruised and sore for a week.

Returning to their earlier conversation, John said, “Anyways, Dad’s lost his latest job and spends all day drinking himself sick.” Maybe it made John a bad son, but he didn’t want to sit around and witness that every afternoon: “If it’s not football, then I’ve got to find something else to do after classes.”

Mary’s eyes lit up worryingly and a mischievous smirk curved her lips.

“What?” John asked, wary.

“Well, I was talking to Mrs. Hudson earlier…” Mary began. She didn’t have a chance to continue as John began speaking over her.

“No. No way in hell. I am _not_ trying out for the play. Mary Morstan, so help me-”

“It’s not called ‘trying out’, it’s an _audition_ when it’s theatre, and that’s not-”

“Mary!” John said, voice dangerously close to a whine, “The reason I asked you to be my pretend girlfriend is to _avoid_ my parents thinking I’m gay. How is putting on makeup and playing dress-up going to help that cause? I may like blokes Mary, but I’m not a _total_ pouf.”

“That’s offensive, John. You’re better than that,” Mary said sharply. She refused to hear John use words like that to describe his sexuality. John hung his head, defeated. Mary continued, “Besides, I might have to _break up with you_ if you don’t just hear me out on this issue.”

“Mary, no! I mean, of course you can if you want to, but, just, it was so _exhausting_ pretending to date all of those girls,” John babbled, panicked.  After the Harry fiasco, his dad had been breathing down John’s neck, trying to make sure he hadn’t ‘raised _two_ faggots _._ ’ John had dated around to satisfy him, but it hadn’t been enough. John still felt terrible about leading those girls on, but at the time he hadn’t seen another option. For three months, John had been worn-out, emotionally drained, and _miserable_.

When Mary found out what was happening with John’s dad, she offered to play his beard. Begged, really. John had tried to refuse. It wouldn’t be fair to her, and Mary deserved a real relationship. But three weeks, three girls from Surrey, Kent, and Essex later, and one nickname from his rugby mates—‘Three Counties Watson’—John had capitulated. To hear Mary talk about ‘splitting up’ with him now caused panic to flit through his veins.

 “John, stop. You should know I’m only teasing,” Mary said. “And I promise I’m not going to make you audition for the play.”

John blew out a breath, relieved.

“I’m going to make you join the crew.” _Oh, no_. “Stamford’s heading up the technical side of things this fall.” Seeing a spark of interest in John at the name, she wheedled, “C’mon, he’s your favorite teacher. Besides, crew is all power tools and manly things. Even your parents can’t object.”

“’ _Power_ tools and _manly_ things _?’_ ” John asked dubiously. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

“You’ll love it! The backstage group is a great crowd, and I might even get the lead this year. Year 12s almost never do, but Mrs. Hudson said I had, and I quote, ‘great potential!’”

John let Mary chatter on, listening fondly as she spoke at length about this year’s slated production.

He and Mary had been best friends since primary school. Once he had even wished that the two of them could date for real, but neither of them saw each other that way. Still, long years of friendship and hardship had forged an unbreakable dedication between them.

But theatre? Could John really do _that_ , even for Mary? From the lights in Mary’s eyes as she talked about her favorite activity, John guessed that Mary would be getting her way, in this as in most things.

 

* * *

 

“John, this is Greg! Greg, John. You two have fun!” Mary dashed off, leaving John facing ‘Greg’ and trying to remember just how he’d got here.

“Hey John! Mary mentioned the other day you might be interested in joining the crew, yeah?” John nodded, but he must not have looked very enthusiastic, because Greg laughed. “I get it, you’re not the first bloke lured into this department by a girl.” Greg glanced at a girl in the corner. John recognized her from his biology class. Molly Hooper. John grinned at the smitten look on Greg’s face, but before he could speak, Greg continued.

“Anyways, I’m the stage manager. I call the shots during a show and make sure everything happens when it’s supposed to and nothing happens when it isn’t. My ASM’s named Sally Donovan-that’s Assistant Stage Manager by the way, but you’ll get the hang of all the acronyms soon enough. She’s in auditions at the moment, keeping notes for Mrs. Hudson, the director.” Greg whistled at Molly and jerked his head toward John when she turned. Molly smiled and jogged over. “This is Molly, she operates Mechagodzilla.”

John tilted his head questioningly, and Molly smiled. “We have bio together, right?” Molly asked. “And ignore the Mechagodzilla comment. I just run the sound board.”

“Same difference,” muttered Greg.

“Yes, fine, it looks kind of scary, and it has a lot of buttons and knobs and stuff, but it can be really fun! You can even listen to conversations that actors are having backstage when they’re micced. Oh! Not that I do that! Um.” Molly finished, blushing quite pink.

John winked. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” Molly blushed harder.

“We do a Shakespeare every autumn,” Greg steered their way back into the conversation as he stepped slightly closer to Molly. “This year it’s Romeo and Juliet. Rehearsals start as soon as auditions get decided, which should be next week if Mrs. Hudson finds what she likes. Looks like a good group auditioned this year, a lot of familiar faces. Speaking of which, there’s our Romeo!”

John followed Greg’s gaze to see a tall, slim boy exiting the door to the auditorium, a smug expression on his face. And what a face it _was_ \- too long with big lips and heavy brows: strange, and almost alien. But John thought that it might be one of those faces that would stop being strange and start being handsome, given half a chance.

“Not your Romeo, Lestrade.” The boy answered in a deep voice. “Who would _want_ to play a melodramatic hack like that? You’re looking at your Mercutio.”

“What, you got offered the part right there?” Greg asked, dubious. ~~~~

“Might as well have.” The boy sneered. “Should have seen the rubbish that came out for auditions this year, honestly. That part is mine.”  John should have found the arrogance off-putting, but instead he was intrigued. “Who’s this?” Sherlock asked, finally looking down his nose at John.

“New crew member, we hope. John Watson, meet Sherlock Holmes.”

 “Cheers,” John said, reaching out his hand towards Holmes. The boy looked John up and down, eyes narrowed.

“Football or rugby?”

“I’m…sorry?” John asked. His outstretched hand reached up awkwardly to fix his fringe as it became clear that the boy didn’t intend to shake it.

“Which team rejected you, football or rugby?

“Uh, football. How did you-”

“Simple.” Holmes said with a dismissive flick of his fingers in John’s general direction. “It’s obvious you’re dying to escape home, even planning on joining the military after school based I see,” he continued, oblivious to John’s interrupting, “Wait a second, how-”

 “You obviously got rejected from one of the school teams, otherwise what would you be doing _here_? Your arms are tan, as are your legs, but not below the knee. You’ve spent a lot of time outside, but not sunbathing. You were wearing knee-high socks, undoubtedly for a _sport_ some kind. The military ambitions I got from your posture and the royal military armband. The only remaining question is: why theatre? There are any number of _clubs_ that would appeal more to a boy like you. Perhaps the chess club-”

“I’m sorry, a boy like _me?_  What is that supposed to mean?” John interrupted, a prickle of indignation edging aside his awe at this strange creature reciting (most of) his secrets like they were written on his face.

Sherlock scoffed and pronounced him, “Boring!” then walked away without another word.

John gaped at his retreating figure, too shocked to come up with a response. He turned to Greg and Molly. “Who the _hell_ was that?”

“Sorry mate, he’s like that with everyone.” Greg said. “C’mon, Molls and I will show you around backstage. If you like it, come back Monday after classes and we’ll fix you up with a position for the run of the show.”

John walked along with his new friends, already looking forward to next week, and placed Sherlock Holmes firmly out of mind.

 

* * *

 

John returned on Monday, not without hearing several smug ‘I told you so’s from Mary. John would happily endure Mary’s self-satisfaction if everyone on the crew was as nice as Molly, or as easy-going as Greg.

Mr. Stamford had set John up with a screw gun and a showed him several drafts of what he wanted the set to look like. The show was going to be a hybrid Elizabethan-modern setting, so the scenery had “stone” archways and pillars, but also included metal scaffolding and graffiti. John wasn’t sure he ‘got’ it, but he _did_ know how to use power tools, and he could at least put it together.

When he reached the room where Stamford had indicated he would find the rest of the crew, John knocked softly before pushing open the door. There were a few people hanging out on what appeared to be a couch from the seventies. They smiled up at him when he entered. One girl called cheerfully, “You must be John! Welcome to the Shop!”

She introduced herself as Sarah Sawyer, then introduced the others: Stan Hopkins, who John vaguely knew from Maths and a quiet girl dressed all in black named Billie Wiggins.

After greeting each of them, John looked around. The first impression of the room was that the it was absolutely _covered_ in paint. Colorful splashes and drops obscured the original tile of the floor completely and spray paint snaked its ways indiscriminately up the walls. There were stacks of wood and carpentry tools in one corner, a large pile of miscellaneous scenery stacked in another. John saw chairs and lamps from all different eras as well as, inexplicably, an enormous claw-footed bathtub, what appeared to be the front half of a helicopter made out of paper mache, and a tuba that had been spray painted electric pink.

The room was cramped and too hot and definitely a fire hazard waiting to happen, but John immediately loved it.  It was an oasis of chaos inside his otherwise pristine school.

He was soon working happily alongside Sarah, Stan, and Billie. The job wasn’t too difficult but it kept his hands busy. Sarah turned out to be great company, joking and chatting alongside him. She told him that the Shop was a well-kept secret sitting across a hallway from the theater. It also doubled as a clubhouse for the drama department during lunch and free periods.

 Sarah was just telling him how she also wanted to be a doctor when John heard a familiar shriek. They raced across the hall and into the theater to see what had happened. The school’s theater wasn’t very grand, but it had at least a hundred seats, a balcony, and plenty of room for hanging lights and scenery.

John barely had time to register blonde hair and a blazing smile before they were jumping into his arms. “I made it! Oh, John, I made the show! I got the _lead!_ I don’t even care if I’ll be starring with that idiot Anderson, I got the _lead!_ ”

“Of course you did, Mary, you’re brilliant!” John grinned enormously, and gave her a wet smack on the cheek. He loved to see Mary happy, considering all she did for him. Mary beamed and dragged John over to see the cast list.

 

Romeo - Phil Anderson

Juliet - Mary Morstan

Mercutio - Sherlock Holmes

Nurse - Janine Hawkins

Tybalt - Jefferson Hope

Benvolio - Stanley Hopkins

 

Well, Sherlock Holmes got the part he wanted. It was good to know some of that arrogance was justified, John supposed. The last name made John pause in his perusal. “Stan, you never told me you were an actor!” he said, looking over at the boy.

“I’m not, not really! What do you mean?” Stanley said as he joined John by the list. “Oh my god. Sarah - Sarah, Mrs. Hudson actually cast me! What am I going to do?” he squeaked, eyes wide and fearful.

Sarah just laughed. “We’ve auditioned together for every show the past three years. The only reason we’re even on the crew is because we’ve never made it before, and now you’re upset because you _did_?” She pulled Stanley in for a hug. “I’m so proud of you! And I’ll be tearing up in the wings every second you’re on stage.”

“Uh, Sarah, you’re on this list too.” John said, as he continued to scan it. “Lady Capulet.”

“WHAT?” Sarah shrieked. “Oh my god! I don’t believe this is happening, Stan!”

John chuckled as he watched the two of them dance wildly around the stage, falling into an rapid, bouncy waltz. He was only disappointed that his new friends wouldn’t be joining him backstage after all. He shouldn’t have worried.

“Wipe that hopeful look off your face, Johnny-boy! Lady Capulet only has a few scenes. I’ll have plenty of time during rehearsals to stop in and annoy you here.” She winked, still glowing from the news.

“Oi, nobody calls me Johnny-boy but my sister and her girlfriend!” John yelled without thinking. He immediately flushed, realizing what he’d given away about Harry.

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong there, Johnny-boy! Add me to the list!” Sarah chirped, utterly unfazed.

John looked around at the others to see that none of them had reacted poorly to hearing about Harry. He’d heard the stereotype of theatre being a safe space for gays. But he still thought they’d make a fuss about his sister’s girlfriend, even if only in a positive way. This, though? This genuine _disinterest_ in his sister’s sexuality? It meant more to John than any vocal support or reassurances ever could. Maybe someday this would be a place that _he_ could…

John let that thought go before getting carried away. Even if _they_ wouldaccept him and his sexuality, he just wasn’t prepared for the information to get back to his parents.

“The only name I don’t recognize is Jefferson Hope. Any idea who he is?” Billie asked as she looked over the list.

“New kid,” Greg piped in. “Just transferred into Year 13 with me, he’s in a few of my classes,” he shrugged. “Keeps to himself. He’s a bit-”

Greg was interrupted by Mary’s cry of “Sherlock! Congratulations, dear!” John’s head whipped around. Mary was friends with Sherlock?

“Mary, my compliments to you as well,” Sherlock said, entirely sincere. Some of John’s reservations towards Sherlock thawed at his honestly spoken words. “You deserved the part. I only regret that you have to play against that failure of natural selection.”

Mary laughed and swatted Sherlock’s arm. “I wouldn’t have had to if you’d tried out for the lead.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. It made his face much handsomer.

John spoke, “Haven’t you heard, dear? Romeo is just some ‘melodramatic hack.’” John looked up into Holmes’ face, challenging him to disagree. “That’s what he called one of Shakespeare’s best known characters! It’s only a good thing we’re not doing Macbeth, or he’d have Shakespeare rolling over in his grave,” John finished, grinning. Everyone was staring at him. Sarah actually gasped. “What?” he asked, nervous.

“John, you can’t say the “M” word in a theater! Has nobody ever told you that?” Sarah said in a hushed voice.

“What, seriously?” John laughed. The superstition sounded familiar, but were they really going to enforce a rule like that? He looked around at five solemn faces. Apparently so.

As one, they began to push John offstage and out the stage door. “Mary, what the hell?” he asked, nervous.

Now faintly smirking, Mary explained. “You named the Scottish Play, John. But don’t worry, there’s a cleansing ritual you can perform to make it up to the theater ghosts. You have to leave the building, spit, curse, and spin around three times. Then all you have to do is beg to be let back inside, and we’re all set!” They were out in the hallway now, and quickly approaching one of the school’s exits.

“C’mon Sarah, Stan, Billie, it’s not that big a deal, yeah?” John tried his new friends to no avail. He turned to Greg. “Greg, mate, you’re not really going to make me do this, are you?” Greg was one of the easiest-going blokes John had met, and as stage manager he held authority. Surely he wouldn’t make John do something so ridiculous. Many heavy palms continued to push him towards the door.

“Sorry, mate. Tradition’s tradition. And…I’d feel better personally if you did this for us.” Greg looked genuinely apologetic, which was _insane_.

“Sherlock?” John tried tentatively. It was worth one last shot.

“Oh, John. You should’ve gone with chess club. You had no idea what you were getting into, did you?” Sherlock asked with a smirk before shoving John unceremoniously out the door. Fuck, it was cold!

Well, if he was going to make this theatre thing stick, he’d better do _something_. And, surprisingly, he wanted it to stick. It was good work and he liked his new friends. John _had_ always had a soft spot for the weird ones. Maybe he’d even get to know Sherlock, now he knew Mary liked him.

Feeling unbelievably stupid as he saw some of the football lads in the courtyard nearby, John gathered some saliva and spat on the ground, then cursed loudly. He spun around three times, as quickly as possible, and stumbled back towards the door from which he’d been ejected, dizzy. “Please, let me back in!” he tried. No luck. “Um, I’m really sorry for saying Mac- I mean, the ‘M’ word. If you please just let me back inside, I’ll never say it again. I’m begging you, please let me inside, its fucking frigid out here! Please!” John watched the group exchange inscrutable looks through the glass. Finally they looked to Sherlock, who in turn looked examined John. Sherlock nodded once, solemn, and opened the door. Thank fuck.

“John Watson…Welcome to theatre,” Sherlock rumbled with a faint quirk of the lips.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ever say Macbeth onstage in a theater. I know from experience what happens :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet again (and again and again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware teenage insecurities and POV shifts.

Building scenery for the show kept John and Billie busy, hammering platforms and cutting archways and pillars out of sheets of wood. Stan and Sarah stopped by for a few hours each week to help out, always eager to talk about rehearsals. Stan in particular would not shut up about how brilliant it was to act with Sherlock.

By Stamford’s estimate, the crew had a month left to finish construction, at which point they would move the set into the theater and paint it. Good thing, too, because the Shop was getting claustrophobic. Scenery scrabbled its way up along the walls and blocked vents. John lived in fear of a fire inspection.

John was just turning into the Shop one afternoon when he heard a commotion just outside the stage doors. Concerned, he went to investigate, only to find Sherlock and Sally Donovan yelling from opposite sides of a cluttered table. The table was covered in a mountain of random modern and Elizabethean items. Must be the props, which John knew Sally to be managing in Stan’s stead. John saw masks, a basket full of fake bread and fruit, goblets, a flashlight, and several fake guns among the disarray. He recognized several knock-off browning pistols, which actors would carry in place of swords.

 “You idiot, where did you even find this? Mrs. Hudson explicitly asked that no religious symbols be used on stage for this production!” Sherlock was yelling, shaking something on a gold chain in front of Sally’s face.

John stepped between them. “Oi, what’s going on here?”

“This freak is trying to tell me how to do my job, Watson, nothing new.” Sally answered, scowling at Sherlock.

Sherlock was fuming as he thrust the prop into John’s hands. “Mercutio is meant to wear a necklace that symbolizes his wealth. It’s a central piece of his costume, but _Sally_ ,“ he spat the name with disgust, “gave me this piece of rubbish instead. It’s a cameo necklace, with distinctly _Catholic_ symbolism carved into it. A Vatican cameo! Goes against everything Mrs. Hudson asked for!” John inspected the necklace in question. It was a large piece of costume jewelry that depicted Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus.

“A Vatican cameo?” John repeated, dubious. “Does it really matter what the necklace looks like? You’re going to be onstage, nobody will know that it’s the wrong prop.”

Sherlock groaned and Sally smirked, victorious. “The wrong prop can make an enormous difference to an actor, John,” Sherlock said, as though explaining something very simple to an exceptionally dumb child. “The wrong prop takes an actor away from the ephemeral moment in which his performance exists. Mrs. Hudson is right: religious symbolism is a distraction, in addition to being totally irrelevant to Mercutio’s character. The wrong prop can kill a performance. A _Vatican cameo_ , honestly.”

John honestly thought Sherlock was going a little far with this, but he could see how worked up the bloke was. “Sorry, Sally, but if Mrs. Hudson doesn’t want him using one, maybe it’d be best if you found something else.” Sally scoffed before wordlessly snatching the cameo from John’s hands and storming away.

John looked to Sherlock. “Does it really make that big of a difference to you? The necklace?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, John.”

“What, ‘a boy like me’ couldn’t possibly keep up with whatever thought processes going on in that positively massive brain of yours?” John retorted, mostly in jest. Sherlock was arrogant and a bit annoying, but John was rapidly developing a soft spot for him.

Sherlock eyed John appraisingly. “You’re not, you know.”

“Not what?”

“Not like the others.” Sherlock clarified, matter-of-fact. “When I met you, I thought you were just some jock who’d been dragged backstage by his girlfriend kicking and screaming.”

“Well, I kind of was.” John said, scratching behind his ear. Mary _had_ dragged him into this, after all.

“But there’s more than that, isn’t there?” Sherlock pressed. “I can’t put my finger on it yet, but there is. More to you. You did our cleansing ritual, after you named the Scottish Play,” John snorted at Sherlock’s commitment to superstition. Sherlock, true to self, ignored him. “ _and_ you did it mostly without complaint, in front of witnesses, some of them your old football mates. And what you did just now, with Sally: that was good. Few jocks would stand up for the freak.”

“You’re not a freak!” John said automatically, not sure why he was arguing. Sherlock Holmes _was_ one of the strangest people he’d ever met. But something in him wanted to defend this boy who appeared a stranger to kindness. Perhaps it had something to do with Sherlock's intense gaze, which was currently doing things to John's stomach that were unfamiliar but not entirely uncomfortable.

“But I am, John. I’m an anomaly, among my peers, my family, and my few friends. It is unusual, to care about something as inconsequential as a necklace,” Sherlock waved his hand towards the cameo necklace. “But it matters, in a way that Sally wouldn’t care to understand. To _act_ , to completely thrust off your personality and wrap another around you so tight that it’s a second skin? It’s the freest you can ever be, the biggest high you’ll ever experience.” John was mesmerized, watching those lips shaping gorgeous words, the passion igniting Sherlock as he spoke. His eyes were far away, and whatever they were seeing was something breathtaking. Abruptly, Sherlock seemed to snap back to himself. “And to have something as small and insignificant as the wrong prop stand in my way? I won’t allow it.”

John stood there, thunderstruck by how much there was to Sherlock, underneath the veneer of arrogance and superiority. John had caught a glimpse of something vulnerable, and beautiful, and precious. ~~~~

He cleared his throat, unable to come up with a proper response. He settled, rather lamely, for, “Um. Glad I could help, then. And, uh, see you around sometime.” John turned back towards the Shop. Sherlock, after a moment’s pause, walked into the auditorium.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Sherlock huffed out of rehearsal and practically ran into John Watson. _Oh, him again, great. As if I need_ more _exposure to fit/kind/surprising John Watson._ Sherlock had utterly embarrassed himself the last time they'd met, going on about how much he loved acting, how John was so _different_. Which John had then immediately disproved by running away from the _freak_ at the soonest opportunity.

Sherlock strode quickly towards a bubbler to avoid confrontation, but John spotted him.

"Oi, Sherlock! How's rehearsal going?"

He surveyed John's face for ill intent, but found only genuine curiosity. Sherlock supposed he ought to reward that with the truth. "Tedious. Anderson delivers his lines like there's a gun to his head. Mrs. Hudson knows he's terrible, but apparently his father gave a 'generous donation' to the drama department this fall. And Benvolio has been following me around like a puppy for no discernible reason. I had to get out of there, if only for a moment."

"Benvolio? You mean Stan?"

"Oh, is that his name?" Sherlock asked, disinterested. He continued down an empty corridor. John, for some unfathomable reason, followed.

"Yeah, he's a sweet kid. First time doing the acting thing, he says. And he worships the ground you walk on, if it means anything to you. No idea why."

Sherlock turned sharply back to John, now several feet behind Sherlock’s rapid stride, expecting to find mockery or disgust in his eyes. Instead, there was only a teasing smirk and raised eyebrows.

"What, you expect me to just _believe_ that you're some magnificent actor without _proof?_ " John crossed his arms, eyebrow raised in a silent dare.

Something ignited in Sherlock and he began a slow, purposeful stalk towards John. Never say Sherlock Holmes backed down from a challenge. He softened his features, but kept his eyes blazing with authentic, John-Watson-induced frustration. When he reached his target, he bent down so his lips were nearly kissing John’s ear.

"What a pretty thing man is,” Sherlock began in a breathy voice, “when he goes in his doublet and hose," Sherlock leaned just slightly back and roamed his eyes up and down John's form- he was shorter than Sherlock, but, God, _fit_ , a long-sleeved gray tee shirt stretched across a muscled chest, "and leaves off his _wit_ ," he finished. It was one of Sherlock's favorite lines, from _Much Ado_. In an instant he dropped the flirtatious act, straightened, and raised a single eyebrow at John. “Satisfied?”

John looked rather disoriented, his weight leaning a bit forward, head tilted up, breath coming faster. Dazed was a good look on him, Sherlock decided cheerfully.

After a head shake and several rapid blinks, John finally spoke. "Erm, yeah. Yeah, s’pose that'll do for now." He coughed and looked away, visibly flustered. God, Sherlock hoped he hadn’t offended his _masculine sensibilities_. "Anyways, better get back to the, eh, grind." John jerked his head in the general direction of the Shop, where Sherlock saw an abandoned a screw gun and some lumber.

Sherlock offered an, "Obviously," before strutting in the opposite direction. He smirked, savoring the mystified expression on John's face, like he hadn't been quite sure whether Sherlock was real. This _was_ going to be a season.

 

* * *

 

John watched Sherlock walk away, and felt something heavy and hot growing in the pit of his stomach.

_Fuck_.

He was supposed to keep his head down until graduation. Not lose his head over a bloke he’d just met. But he remembered Sherlock’s warm breath puffing out against his ear and chuckled, shaking his head. This was a dangerous game. John liked a bit of dangerous.

Plus, he couldn't quite bring himself to end their fragile new friendship. Sherlock was peculiar, mysterious, and _captivating_ , and John wasn't ready to give him up just yet.

John began looking for Sherlock in the corridors between classes and at breaks during rehearsal. There was never time for anything more than quick snatches of conversation here and there, but it was enough of a glimpse into Sherlock's fascinating brain to pique John's interest further. Sherlock was brilliant, and arrogant, and morbidly fascinated with death.

John couldn’t get enough.

He was trying, trying, _trying_ not to flirt…But it was _so fucking hard_ not to flirt when he saw the way a simple "brilliant" made Sherlock's cheeks flush, made him clear his (long-gorgeous-pale) throat and look away. John found it hard to remember that he had a (fake) girlfriend when this gorgeous specimen stood beside him.

 

* * *

 

A couple of weeks later, John ducked past one of the studios on his way to the Shop. He saw Sherlock through a window, and stopped dead. Sherlock wore a soft purple tee shirt and tight, _tight,_ oh that’s why they call them that, black tights that hugged every inch of his legs. He was spinning hypnotically, left leg folding in and out with each rotation, curls whipping in a violent halo around his face.

_Sherlock danced_.

Sherlock danced _ballet._

Yet another piece of the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes which John delightedly added to his list. Along with ‘likes bees,’ ‘has an annoying older brother,’ and ‘best subject: chemistry.’

A girl behind John - preoccupied with her phone - walked straight into him and caused them both to crash into the door of Sherlock’s studio. Sherlock's head snapped up at the collision and John saw him roll his eyes. Nonetheless, Sherlock walked over to let in a sheepish, apologetic John.

"John," was all he offered, a single eyebrow raised. It said things like, _what are you doing here,_ and, _why are you wasting my time,_ and, _did you seriously just crash into a wall, idiot?_ It was a chatty eyebrow.

"Yeah, I, uh, saw you doing," John swept a hand towards Sherlock's entire self, hoping it conveyed the general idea, because John didn’t know how to verbalize anymore. "Well, I thought I'd stop by. Say hi and, you know, and that." God, could he sound any lamer? Three Counties, his arse. "How do you not get dizzy doing all those spins?” John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but seemed to accept that John’s presence at his rehearsal for the moment. He turned off the music—something with a solo violin—and grabbed a water bottle. “It’s called ‘spotting.’ Helps to control balance and prevent dizziness.”

 “That’s a useful trick. Maybe you should teach me. You know, in case I say the M word again. I got _awfully_ dizzy last time,” John said, leaning towards Sherlock, hands in pockets. Now that he was gaining confidence, he just couldn’t stop the charm.

Sherlock went a bit pink. He cleared his throat and nodded. “If you wish. The general idea is to rotate your head much faster than the rest of your body when you spin, and to move at a consistent rate. So, you’ll spin, holding eye contact with me whilst you turn. Try to make the contact last as long as possible before turning your head.”

John tried the spin with little success in his rubber-soled shoes. Toeing them off, he began again. He looked at Sherlock and began to spin. “Eyes on me, John. Pretend as if there were a magnetic connection between our eyes.”

John didn’t have much trouble pretending. He watched unfathomable gray-green eyes as long as possible as he spun before whipping his head around. Each turn was like flinging himself off of a diving board, only to find himself caught each time by warm green pools of water. _God he was beautiful_. It wasn’t hard, to resist the urge to look away as he spun, not when he had a target like-

_“Oof!”_

 “Er, sorry about that. Lost my balance there…” John trailed off as he looked up into Sherlock’s face, registering surprisingly strong arms wrapped around him. Sherlock’s gaze glanced down at John’s mouth for the briefest moment. John leaned in instinctively, ready to finally just-

“Yes, well, good,” With a startled look, Sherlock backed away rapidly and John nearly lost his balance again. “I think you’ve got the general idea, in fact you’re practically a ballerina. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to just continue with my rehearsal. Goodbye, John.”

John shortly found himself on the wrong side of the studio door. His shoes followed in two clops, and the straining notes of a lone violin began again.

Crap. What was that? John had _definitely_ been flirting with Sherlock. He needed to work on that reflex. He had never been shy before about expressing interest in the girls he’d liked over the years, and that trait was carrying over to the boys he liked. The boy, he liked.

This had all the makings of impending disaster.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wondered about Mary. Sitting in a rehearsal, he watched Mary heroically attempt to act against the untalented Clod. She was quite talented. If she wished, she could easily pursue a career in theatre, or at the very least become an undercover spy for Mycroft. She was an exceptional actress, but beyond that…? Sherlock did not think he was being unkind when he decided that she was _boring_. Then again, Sherlock was not known for having the greatest gauge of what characterized ‘kindness.’

From what he observed, Mary was _ordinary._ She had her friends and her hobbies and her sparkling eyes. She had a smiling demeanor and was quick to temper when she thought her friends were being insulted or threatened. What Sherlock did not see in her was an _edge._ What did John see in her?

Sherlock knew very little about love but he was beginning to know a lot about John Watson. John wanted to join the army. He shot guns when he wasn’t busy on weekends. He forewent safety precautions in the Shop when nobody was looking. The boy _craved_ danger, he _needed_ an edge. What was Mary’s? Damn it, he needed more data!

None was forthcoming. The problem was, John rarely talked about Mary. Once, Sherlock had attempted to tease John about his near-legendary history of romantic conquest. He’d called John ‘Three Counties Watson,’ like he’d heard the rugby lads do, expecting an eye-roll or a cocky smirk. Instead John had paled and clammed up. Shut down. He was hiding something. But what?

Maybe it was wishful thinking on Sherlock’s part, but sometimes John seemed to forget about Mary’s existence altogether. _Wishful thinking,_ Sherlock scoffed to himself. How had he allowed himself to get this worked up over a boy?

Then again, it was rather inevitable. John was intriguing, with his sharp edges and cuddly jumpers. With his near-constant flirtation and his apparent commitment to Mary. With his masculine athleticism and his willingness to join the theatre.

Towards John laid endless frustration, but Sherlock kept going back for more.

And if every once in a while, it seemed like maybe there was a spark of something more in John’s eyes, Sherlock would ignore it. If memories of the almost-kiss in the studio appeared in his daydreams, he would push the thoughts away.

John was _not_ flirting with him. John was _straight_. And even if he weren’t, John was _taken_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tech begins. John spots Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That TW from the beginning comes into play in this chapter. Non-graphic description of child abuse.

 

Since Sarah and Stan had left the crew, Greg was pressed for hands. He was operating the light board himself in addition to calling the show, and his assistant Sally Donovan had taken over Stan’s old job of finding and managing props. Billie had volunteered to fly scenery in and out from backstage and John would be running a spotlight from the balcony.

“You turn on the lamp here, this little knob adjusts how big the circle of light is, this one changes the brightness, and these switches change the color.” Sarah had shown John the balcony (up a quick flight of stairs from the audience level) and given him a run down on how the spotlight worked. “It’ll be tricky at first to know exactly where you need to aim and how to hit your target, but you’ll catch on soon enough,” she finished, moving aside so that John could try.

“Shoot for that chair, off to the side,” Sarah suggested. John aimed the body of the spotlight before flicking on the lamp. It hit its target, dead center. Sarah gaped. “Lucky shot. Definitely. No way you’re that good at it without any practice. Okay, Mrs. Hudson just walked in. Aim for her.” John did so, and the director’s arm immediately came up to shield her eyes as she squinted up at the bright light suddenly in her face. John switched the light off. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled, grinning.

“Don’t be sorry, John. Looks like you’re getting the hang of the equipment up there!”

“He’s a natural!” Sarah yelled back. “I’ve never seen anyone pick it up so quick! Took me three days before I could hit a target on the first try.” Sarah turned to John, curious. “You ever shot a gun, Watson?”

“Yes, actually. My uncle’s ex-military. I go to the shooting range with him whenever he’s in town.”

“You a crack shot?”

“More like crack spot!” Mrs. Hudson added from below. John rolled his eyes, but he was secretly pleased. He had always had to work to meet his goals. He was naturally clever to an extent, but he still studied hard to get good marks. John had trained for months before trying out for the rugby team, and he’d excelled there too. But nothing had ever come so easily to him as this.

Sarah called Stanley out of cast warm-ups, and they spent an hour kicking a football around on stage to let John practice following a target. It was fun, and took enough concentration to keep John interested. But soon enough the rest of the cast filed in and Greg called everyone down to the main level for Mrs. Hudson’s introductory speech.

“Welcome to tech!” Mrs. Hudson began to a mixture of cheers and groans. “For those of you who haven’t experienced the marvel that is tech week, I’ll give a quick description. Our show opens in eight days, which means we have that time to add in costumes, lights, sets, and props.  I’ll ask all of you actors to be patient when we have to pause in our rehearsals to fiddle with the lights. You’ll get bored, but that’s the price of art, I’m afraid. There are going to be long hours, but don't any of you go neglecting your homework. Use the off time to study. I think that's about all I've got to say for the moment. Let's get started! Greg, dear?”

Greg stood up from the front row and said “You heard the lady, up! Places, for top of show!”

“Thank you places,” the group chorused back. John added his own (slightly delayed) thanks. It seemed there were still plenty of traditions to learn in theatre. At least for this one he got to stay inside.

John bounded up the stairs into his seat in the balcony, eager to start work. He put on a clunky wireless headset worthy of a spaceship and spoke into a microphone attached to one of the earmuffs. “John Watson on com, chief! Over!”

Greg’s chuckle filtered through his left ear between crackles. “I know, John, considering you’re currently fifteen feet away from me.” John looked to his right and saw that Greg was, in fact, sitting behind a nearby table next to Molly. On the table were two boards full of innumerable buttons and sliders (one for lights and another for sound, John surmised), a lamp, and Greg’s script.

Greg took roll to check that everyone backstage had a working headset before turning off his microphone. John waited, poised by his instrument to begin rehearsal. Janine Hawkins walked onstage to deliver the prologue. “Okay, Watson. Spot at full brightness on our Nurse, there,” Greg said. John eased his spotlight on and watched as Janine began her monologue.

_“Two households, both alike in dignity,_

_In fair Verona, where we lay our scene-”_

“HOLD!” Greg’s voice echoed through the theater over the speakers. “Sorry, Janine! Give us a second to fiddle with these lights a bit, will ya?” Janine squinted towards the back of the theater where Greg sat, and raised a thumbs up in acknowledgment. “Alright, folks,” Greg’s voice came back, this time in John’s ear. “Stay with me.  Mrs. Hudson wants to make this moment look 'a bit colder, dear.' Give me a mo’ while I figure out this light board and we’ll be back on track!”

John kept his spotlight aimed on Janine for what seemed like ages - but was actually about twenty minutes – and listened over headset as Greg got increasingly frustrated with the light board. It took twenty-five minutes for him to concede defeat and request Sarah over the loud speakers. John watched Sarah jog out from backstage- in the flowing green costume of Lady Capulet -and up the stairs to the balcony. She threw a quick wink at John as she ran past him to Greg’s table, currently covered in several thick manuals.

All told, it took _another_ twenty minutes to get back to the script. This time, Janine managed to make it to the end of her speech before they had to call hold.

John was starting to think “tech” wasn’t such a blast, after all. His phone chimed.

_Yup. SH_

SH? Must be Sherlock. He could practically hear the 'p' popping at the end of the word. But what was he talking about? John tapped out a response, hoping Greg wouldn’t notice. Considering he was currently muttering to himself about ‘ambers’ and ‘gobos’ between curse words under his breath, having forgotten to turn off his microphone, John didn’t think he would.

_Sherlock? How did you get my number? Also, what?_

_You were wondering if tech was always this boring. SH_

John huffed out a breath disbelievingly when the message arrived.

_Amazing, as usual. I don't think I'll ever get used to that. Well, any tricks for getting through it?_

_I’ve been trying out a variation on Chinese water torture on Anderson, myself. SH_

He laughed, shaking his head and grinning stupidly down at his phone.

_How are you managing that backstage?_

_I started by humming the same carol for about ten minutes straight. He didn’t like that, but he could hardly go anywhere, we’re both waiting Stage Left for our first entrances. Then I began to change the rhythm of the song, adding different length pauses at unpredictable intervals. I might try gradually changing the pitch and tune altogether, next. SH_

_Good lord, poor Anderson._

_Poor Anderson? Poor Sherlock! Being in his presence is a psychological torture of its own making. I am merely returning the favor. SH_

_How’s he reacting?_

_Intermittent twitch in his left eye, and every time I restart with a new pattern, he flinches. SH_

_Who needs water torture? I’ve got Sherlock Holmes._

John sent the message without thinking, but immediately wished he hadn’t. Would Sherlock look at that the wrong way? Or, the _right_ way, as it happened to be? There was a long pause, but eventually his screen lit up.

_It appears you have. Sally’s back here and apparently Anderson tipped her off... this experiment will have to wait for another day. Anyways, his first entrance is nearly up.  SH_

John checked the script he had perched on a music stand to see that Sherlock was right. They’d been exchanging messages between cues and several pages of dialogue had passed without him noticing. It appeared Sherlock Holmes was the solution to tech-induced boredom.

He spent the next hour and a half of tech sitting on his chair with nothing to do, texting Sherlock intermittently. It was the only thing making the inaction bearable. John even started an experiment of his own. He tested exactly how far his wireless headset would function before it stopped receiving messages from Greg and started picking up random radio stations. He got most of the way out of the school at one point before Greg noticed and told him to stop messing around.

Eventually, Greg crackled through headset with a gruff, "Spot one, up on Anderson... go." John leaned forward, eager to be working at last. For a few glorious lines of dialogue, John got to do something, even if that something involved staring at Anderson, before-

"HOLD."

John groaned, as did most of the cast onstage. He didn't blame them for getting frustrated. At least he had his phone and a chair, but the actors in this scene were stuck fidgeting in place and attempting to chat quietly between Greg's periodic reminders to "shut it." John looked over to see a much harried Greg furiously taking notes and talking over his headset, while also nodding at something Mrs. Hudson was saying from a seat nearby. Molly was spinning idly in a chair next to him. Catching his gaze, she rolled her own eyes at John, but smiled.

One scene down, twenty-four to go. Brilliant.

 

* * *

 

It was another hour before anything remotely interesting happened.

"Standby Watson, we're coming up to a big speech. Get ready to spot Sherlock." Greg spoke through the microphone.

John sat up straighter and prepared the spotlight before responding to Greg, "Ten-four."

"Just say, 'standing by,' Watson."

"Right. Sorry, Greg. Standing by." John was ready. Eager, even, to see whether Sherlock actually had the chops to back up his big talk. Past his initial…demonstration, John hadn’t seen Sherlock act.

Anderson, Stanley, and Sherlock walked in with several ensemble members, all in costume. They were an odd mix of modern and Elizabethan, to match the scenic elements. Sherlock was dressed head to sneakered-toes in black, save for a suitably long and dramatic cloak draped over one shoulder, which was blood red and embellished in gold. In his left hand he held a long-beaked black mask. John couldn't _wait_ to see him put it on.

Anderson stumbled through his lines as usual. Stanley didn't do a half bad job, honestly. Not his fault Shakespeare wrote such incomprehensible plays. What the hell was a bow of lath? Or a crowkeeper?

"Fade in spot one on Sherlock...Go." said Greg. John gently eased up the light on Sherlock as he began his speech.

Sherlock began to speak. His bearing, tone, and rhythm were all poise and precision. John began to _understand_ the show for once. It was like Sherlock had been transported through time. He spoke the words so feelingly and earnestly that they were suddenly unmistakable in meaning. And God, what he was saying became...surprising.

This play was written four centuries ago, it should have been old and dry but the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth sounded absolutely _filthy_. "If love be rough with you, be rough with love." Sherlock circled Anderson, predatory. " _Prick_ love or _pricking_ , and you beat love down." Oh God, he was _grinding_ in the air around Anderson. John hadn't picked up any of _that_ innuendo when he’d read this play in Year 10. What had they been thinking, assigning a play like this? John wished he could look away as he felt his face heat up, but his job depended on close scrutiny of his subject, and Greg was going to call his cue any moment now.

The scene continued as Sherlock, snapped out another line, "Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits five times in that ‘ere once in our five wits." John laughed into the otherwise quiet of the theater. Sherlock might as well have been telling Anderson he was lowering the IQ of the entire street for all the vitriolic disdain he put into the words. Was that what acting was? Not taking on a new personality, but rearranging the pieces that you recognized? The trio played through most of the scene with ease. They were talking about dreams when Greg came back on headset.

"Queen Mab, what's she?" asked Stanley.

“Spot one on Sherlock…Go.”

It began like a bedtime story. Sherlock spun an enchanting tale of a fairy making dreams for lovers, lawyers, and ladies. John was completely entranced as he literally followed Sherlock’s dance across the stage. Sherlock illustrated the words and twisted them around him in the air. The prose rolled off his tongue and rumbled through John's chest, making him shiver. But as the tone of the speech changed Sherlock stilled, his fancies turning darker as Queen Mab's did the same. His words built, coming faster and more energetically - and okay apparently it was back to the sex again, Jesus Christ, Mrs. Hudson there are going to be kids watching - and Sherlock continued to build up momentum before-

"Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk of nothing." John let out a breath of relief as Anderson interrupted, if with poor Shakespearean grammar. Greg called another hold.

John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock slipped out of character. His shoulders rolled back and his chin came up, something in his balance gracefully shifting back to _Sherlock_. John had almost forgotten, in the midst of the performance, that Sherlock was not Mercutio. That Mercutio wasn’t Sherlock.

He watched the dust motes float around in the beam of light he still has directed at Sherlock as he let his heart rate decrease. He really needed to get a handle on this crush.

Just as he allowed himself to look back at the object of his thoughts, Sherlock looked straight up to where John sat, smirked slowly, and winked.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock walked out on stage, pleased to finally have something to do with himself. Texting John (and torturing Anderson) made the tech rehearsal process more bearable, but there was nothing quite like the thrill of acting to break up a boring rehearsal. He settled into Mercutio: _fanciful, cutting, bold_. Sherlock saw himself in much of Mercutio’s character. Just as Mercutio’s quick, witty comments were the ‘children of an idle brain,’ Sherlock’s deductions were the product of his boredom.

As the scene began, Sherlock felt light warm his face. There was something comforting, knowing that it was John up there. He was glad of the chance to prove to John that he was _good_ at this, that this was a _worthwhile_ pursuit. That this wasn’t just some petty, immaterial thing, as his brother believed.  He was glad John was watching him and lighting him up for the world to see.

He heard John laugh at one of his lines. Paying attention, then.

If Sherlock was drowning in sexual frustration, perhaps he could cause John to feel just a _fraction_ of that. His initial flirting in jest had obviously had some effect on John. What harm would a little more do?

“Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down,” Sherlock injected as much lewdness into the lines as he dared, and began to grind his hips, almost against Anderson. The confusion in Anderson’s eyes was hilarious. But this wasn’t about him, it was about – aha! - Did the spotlight cast around him shake? Just a bit? _Excellent_.

Mrs. Hudson would give him an earful for this later, of course. She allowed this kind of experimentation in rehearsals, in the name of ‘fully exploring our artistic limits,’ but she also knew that this was a school play. Still, why not have a little fun for now?

When Greg called a hold, Sherlock collected himself before looking up behind the light that he knew John to operate, and winking.

_Your move, Watson._

 

* * *

 

Aside from a minor altercation with his dad, John passed the rest of tech week in a pleasant haze of busy work and boredom. Anderson was still hideously awful, Mary was fantastic, and Sherlock was hugely entertaining. John particularly enjoyed watching him tussling with Jeff Hope in the fight prior to Mercutio’s death scene. Before he knew it, they were rehearsing that exact scene for the last time, the night before the show opened. Hope and Sherlock circled each other, Sherlock taunting, Hope sneering. There was something off about Hope tonight. During holds, he wouldn’t chat or read or even _twitch_. He just stared into nothing, for ages.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was obviously having a blast. He swung his gun around like it was a toy. Which it was, of course, but that wasn’t the _point_. John would bet twenty quid that Sherlock showed the same disregard for safety with a real gun in his hand. Plus, Sherlock totally _milked_ his death scene.

_A plague o’ both your houses!_

_They have made worms meat of me._

He obviously adored it. The drama queen.

Waiting for a cue, John reflected on the nature of tech. _This is probably what the military will be like_. _You’re either_ _bored to tears or facing getting-shot-at levels of pressure, with no in-between._ John felt a ludicrous amount of stress about his minor supporting role in a minor school play, especially considering how well he’d done so far. But John felt like he owed it to this show to do his absolute best, to not fuck up. This show had given him insight into another world, something fun and engaging to do in his spare time, and best of all: some absolutely brilliant new friends.

Soon enough Mrs. Hudson told the crew to take an hour for dinner and to rest up. John was bored, killing time in the cafeteria—adjacent to the theatre and used as additional ‘backstage’ area—before Greg called everyone back.  He was picking the cuffs at his (brand new for backstage) long-sleeve black shirt when Sherlock slid into the seat opposite him.

“Well this is going terribly,” Sherlock chirped, looking positively delighted.

“It hasn’t been _so_ bad,” John hedged, confused by Sherlock’s cheerfulness. There had been a few mishaps with costumes and lines, but the rehearsal was going fine, overall. “Well, except for Anderson forgetting that entrance and coming on half-naked,” John mused.

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re wrong, John. The first act was absolutely dreadful! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Um, what?” John asked, as he gave up on trying to understand the enigma of a boy sitting across from him. Under better circumstances he might have tried to parse Sherlock’s meanings, but just now? He had spent forty-eight of the past seventy-two hours in this school, and half of those trapped inside what was essentially a stuffy, dark, box with increasingly irritable occupants. _And_ he had argued with his dad the previous night. He felt entirely worn out.

“John, John, John. You still have so much to learn,” Sherlock shook his head and tutted. The poncy, dramatic git. “Don’t you know? A bad dress rehearsal foretells a good opening night.”

John scowled. He wasn’t in the mood to be condescended to. Sherlock appeared to sense this, and his expression softened.

“Don’t you know, John? I’m only teasing because I envy you.” This caught John’s attention. “It took me _years_ to gain even a modicum of respect from the others in this department, and most of that was Mrs. Hudson’s doing. And then _you_ waltz in here with your goofy smile and rugby shorts and lack of respect for theatre traditions and everyone loves you! It’s completely outrageous! If _I_ had said the name of the Scottish Play on stage, I’d probably’ve been tossed out of the production altogether.”

John chuckled. “Y’know, I wouldn’t have took you for the superstitious type. You’re all,” John waved his hands towards Sherlock’s head as he searched for a good word. He gave up. “Brainy, and stuff. Do you also believe in ghosts?”

Sherlock flapped a hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. Only Thespis. Also, ‘ _brainy_ and _stuff_?’ Your ability to flatter exceeds itself, John. I-” Sherlock cut off as his eyes tracked something behind John.

“What?” John asked, turning around to look. He winced at the movement, still feeling sore from yesterday’s ‘family discussion,’ as his dad had put it. Jeff Hope walked past, slouched and aloof as ever, his prematurely-balding head tucked deep into a hoodie. When he reached the other end of the corridor and left, John turned back to Sherlock. “Something about that guy creeps me out.”

 “Hmm,” was all Sherlock offered, still gazing towards the exit.

“I know something we can do to kill time before rehearsal starts back up. Jefferson Hope, what’s his deal? Do your magic thing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John suspected he was pleased. Actors loved to perform, after all.

“I can’t read much on him. To be truthful, it’s a bit disconcerting. I know he has a terminally ill sister and that he’s being treated for schizophrenia based on the medications I found in his locker.”

John’s hissed reproach of, “Sherlock!” went unheeded.

“I needed more data! I also believe he is being abused, likely by a parent.”

“You can see something like that?” John asked, suddenly nervous and trying desperately to hide it.

 “Of course. There are clear signs, _and_ it would explain his social withdrawal. I saw he had bruises healing in different stages when he changed into costume. He’s always wearing long sleeved shirts, even when it’s warm. Hope doesn’t seem to even _like_ theatre, despite the fact that he’s a decent actor. Perhaps just uses it as an excuse…not…to go…home.”

Slowly, so slowly, Sherlock’s eyes focused back on John, back from the faraway place where his deductions occurred. John shifted, fearing Sherlock’s wide-eyed stare.

“John. When you turned around just now, you winced and gasped slightly, as if in pain. Bruised rib, I’d guess. Did you get injured running spotlight?”

John’s stomach sank. He tried to blank his expression, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. He looked down at the table and slowly shook his head.

 “And, those bruises I saw on your wrist last week, when your sleeve fell down. You said they were from an accident during set construction, but they _weren’t_ , were they?” Sherlock’s voice was increasing in pitch and rate. “And you’ve spent all your time here the past three days, if you didn’t bruise your rib here it must have been at home. John?” Fearful.

_Oh, God. Not now, he could not deal with this now._

“John. Look at me.” Urgent.

John couldn’t. He squeezed his eyes shut, and pretended this wasn’t happening.

_He’d come home so late after rehearsal, and his dad was drunk._

A gentle hand reached out to cup his chin, and tilted it upwards. “John Watson. Look me in the eye and tell me the truth,” Sherlock’s voice sounded choked. The unusual tone startled John into opening his eyes. He found an intense, searching expression and fierce silver eyes at odds with the weak tone of voice. “Is someone abusing you?”

John swallowed, hot shame coursing through his veins.

_John hadn’t come up with the right answers about where he’d been and he’d been dealt a rough shove._

John was handling this just fine, it was just for another year or so, it was all _fine._

_His dad probably hadn’t realized that the sharp edge of the table had been right behind him._

He stood up and walked away from Sherlock.

_In the morning, he’d pulled on his favorite jumper and ignored the spectacular bruise that had bloomed across his ribs._

John heard his name being called, but he couldn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Signs of abuse given in this fic are according to Mayo Clinic. 
> 
> \- Thespis is known as the ‘first actor,’ and is a common theatre ghost
> 
> \- Credit for Sherlock’s brand of ‘psychological torture’ goes to an excellent HP fanfic called Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality. 
> 
> Next time: opening night!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's opening night!

“John, could you do me a favor?” Molly asked, shifting at his side. She and John were sitting in the balcony together, watching as Sally hypnotically mopped the stage floor for the opening night performance.

John eyed Molly warily. He was utterly exhausted after a mostly sleepless night.

“That depends,” John said. “What d’you need?”

“I need you to put on Sherlock’s microphone for me.”

“What? Why?” John asked. He would really prefer not to talk to Sherlock at all tonight. John could only imagine the disgust the boy was feeling. Disgust at the knowledge that John would take abuse from his family, that John hadn’t told anyone sooner. That John couldn’t, or wouldn’t, defend himself.

“It’s just, I tried going into his dressing area and he bit my head off, a bit. I know you two have been getting on recently, and I thought…” Molly trailed off. John looked closer and noticed the redness at Molly’s eyes and nose.

His blood boiled. John’s emotions were a little erratic at the moment, and right then any fear or nervousness he felt at the thought of confronting Sherlock were swallowed up by his greater desire to go and punch the git in the face for making Molly cry. _Molly_. Who was sweet and kind and Sherlock’s _friend._

Molly saw John’s growing anger and attempted to intervene. “Don’t worry about me, John. I _definitely_ let him know he couldn’t treat me like that, I just,” Molly sighed. “I can’t face him right now. You know?”

John knew. “Of course, Molls. What do you need me to do, exactly?”

Molly called Mary up from the lower audience and found her mic pack. When Mary jogged up the stairs, she was wearing only a nude leotard and tights. She winked at John’s flustered expression and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, eh dear?” John resisted the urge to scowl. He didn’t appreciate thinking about the fake sex life he had with his fake girlfriend, who in reality was like his sister.

Molly cleared her throat, “You’ll be changing Sherlock’s microphone of course, but the procedure is basically the same. First things first, you’ll need one of these,” she said, and pulled an _enormous_ box of condoms out of a desk drawer.

“What!” John yelped, going beet red. “Sherlock and I aren’t—I mean, what exactly does changing a mic _involve_?”

Mary laughed. “They’re for the _mics_ , stupid. We actors tend to sweat onstage with all those lights shining on us...Though I do find it interesting that’s where your mind went first,” she mused, assessing John with a raised eyebrow. “ _Quite_ interesting.”

John chuckled nervously, knowing he’d be facing a full-scale inquiry soon enough. “Okay, so the microphones need condoms. What else?” John not-so-subtly changed the subject as he turned back to a curious Molly.

“He’ll have on his own belt,” Molly continued and gestured towards the elastic around Mary’s waist which had a small bag attached. Mary obligingly struck a stewardess-worthy pose to illustrate its location. “I’ve already turned the body on, so all you have to do is put it into his belt then feed the wire up his back and clip the head of the microphone into his hair.” Molly demonstrated. “Simple enough, yeah?”

“Sure thing,” John said. Internally he was panic-celebrating at the thought of having a legitimate excuse to _touch_ Sherlock’s fabulous hair. John suspected his face had gone a bit dreamy because Mary’s eyes narrowed.

He grabbed Sherlock’s mic and made a quick escape before she could get a word in.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock shouldn’t have snapped at Molly like that and he knew it. He hadn’t been expecting the slap, although he’d probably deserved it. Afterwards Molly had immediately gasped and sputtered an apology before scurrying away.

Typically Sherlock was calm at this point before the first performance. But tonight he felt restless and agitated, enough to take it out on the innocent Molly.

After the previous night’s revelation he was _feeling_ a lot more than he typically allowed himself on a surface level. Disgust with himself, for not seeing it sooner. Empathy for John, who had been quietly suffering, likely for years. Admiration that John hadn’t turned sour or violent as a result. Uncertainty about what he should do next. Fear that John would not forgive him for airing out his secrets.

He was just considering seeking Molly out when he heard a knock at his dressing room door.

It wasn’t _actually_ a dressing room. Technically it was a repurposed handicap-accessible restroom, but Sherlock needed his own space to get into character before a show. None of the other male cast had complained about favoritism, as this arrangement meant less time spent in Sherlock’s presence.

John stepped into the room, Sherlock’s microphone clutched in his hand.

“Hey,” was all John said, eyes wary, lips a sad half-quirk.

“Hey,” Sherlock echoed. “Is that my microphone? I was just going to find Molly and apologize.”

A look of surprise crossed John’s face. “Yeah, that’d be good of you. She seemed a bit upset... She cares about you, you know.”

Sherlock hummed, uncomfortable with the sentiment. He cared about Molly, too. It seemed he had a knack for alienating those for whom he cared.

“I just need to put this on you, then,” John said when Sherlock offered nothing more. Sherlock faced away from John and lifted the back of his plain white t-shirt to expose the mic belt. John didn’t move.

“John?”

“Erm, yeah. Sorry,” John said as he unfroze. Sherlock felt the weight of the microphone dropping into the belt, but John made no move to continue.

“You have to put the wire through the back of my shirt,” Sherlock said. Normally he wouldn’t be this helpful, but waters were treacherous. He didn’t want to offend John any more.

“Molly didn’t say anything about—Oh, never mind.” Sherlock shivered as he felt John’s hands accidentally brush the bare skin of his back. John extracted his hands and smoothed down Sherlock’s collar.

“Sit.” Sherlock obliged, and John wove the wire of the microphone through Sherlock’s unruly curls until its head rested at the front of his hairline. The sensation of John’s fingers carding through his hair made Sherlock sigh. He watched John’s face as he worked: admired the concentrated crease to his brow, noticed the shadows under his eyes - _didn’t sleep well last night- that makes two of us_. John’s eyes snapped to his and Sherlock was caught, pinned by the stare.

“Sherlock?” John questioned, evidently startled by what he saw on Sherlock’s face. What _had_ he seen?

John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s lips, and back up. They pleaded with Sherlock, and begged him to understand.

_Understand what?_ Sherlock wanted to scream, but couldn’t. _That you want to kiss me? That you can’t, because you have a girlfriend? That you need_ me _to make the first move?_ That wasn’t something Sherlock would ever do. Not to Mary, and not to John. John would regret it before long, even if he somehow wanted Sherlock now. And John regretting a kiss with Sherlock? Would be worse than his never getting one in the first place.

 Sherlock tore his gaze away. The moment ended. Moments were fleeting things.

“Are you nervous?” John asked.

Could John hear the rapid beating of his heart? Was Sherlock being mocked?

“About the show. It’s opening night. Mrs. Hudson said we have a full house.”

Of course. When would Sherlock stop doubting John’s sincerity? He replied, “Of course not. Nerves are the result of false biological signals found in inferior brains.”

John chuckled and Sherlock savored the sound. “Are _you_ nervous?” Sherlock returned.

“A bit, yeah.”

He rolled his eyes at John’s self-doubt. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re not even performing. Just get up there and do what you’ve been doing all week. You’ll be fantastic.”

John smiled softly and began to apply tape to the wire of Sherlock’s microphone.

“God, must you?” Sherlock groaned.

“’Fraid so. Don’t want this wire to fall-off mid-scene, do you? How would the audience be able to hear your lovely dulcet tones?”

John was _teasing_ him, being _playful_ with him and it made Sherlock want to sing. “The tape rips out a new patch of hair every night. I’ll barely have any left when this show is over.”

“That’d be a shame,” John said softly, carding a hand—accidentally?—through the shorter hairs at the base of Sherlock’s neck as he applied a final piece of tape.

Sherlock cleared his throat and forced himself to back away. “I must finish preparing. Vocal warm-ups, costume, etc., so if you’ll excuse me.”

John stepped away too and said, “Of course. Not that you need it, but... Good luck out there tonight.” He was just pulling open the door when Sherlock spoke.

“John?” The boy looked back at him, eyebrows pulling together. “In theatre, we say ‘break a leg.’”

John’s lips quirked. “Break a leg, then. See you out there.”

He left.

“See you.”

 

* * *

 

John collapsed against the wall took a deep breath just outside Sherlock’s dressing room. He tried to memorize the feeling of Sherlock’s soft hair, the intent sparkle of his galactic eyes, and the way his own fingers had felt skimming along Sherlock’s warm back. Then he straightened up, clenched his fists, and walked away.

Into battle.

 

* * *

 

John looked out onto a full audience and wondered what Sherlock might be able to tell just by looking at them. He spotted the Morstans and waved cheerily to them as they took their seats. Then he took a deep sigh and put on his headset. “Spot one on com.”

“Thanks, Watson. You ready?” John looked over to see Greg at his table, leaning over his script. He had dressed up for the night in a black blazer, black shirt, and black tie.

“As I’ll ever be, I s’pose. You?”

“’Course. And with that, looks like we’re right on time to begin. Break a leg, team. Stand by house lights out and sound cue A...House out and sound A…Go.” John watched as lights faded in the house and a soft blue light faded up on stage. The audience chatter died down at once and Molly’s soundscape filled the air. Janine stepped out in the Nurse’s conservative gray dress. “Spot one on Janine…go.”

And they were off.

John decided this wasn’t so different from rehearsals. The process only changed in the best ways. Maybe there was some truth in Sherlock’s belief that a bad dress made for a good opening, because the whole cast was fantastic. Jokes that had become old and tired to the crew were revitalized when fresh laughter erupted from the audience. The actors appeared to thrive on the attention, playing to the house and giving their all.

The audience _ate up_ Sherlock’s infamous Queen Mab speech. He even got catcalled when he walked out onstage, dark cat-eye makeup making him fiercer than ever. Luckily for the children attending, Mrs. Hudson had asked him to temper the sex. John watched his performance raptly, as if he hadn’t seen it ten times before, and pretended that he was doing so because his job relied upon complete concentration.

There were sniffles in the audience when Mary confessed her deep love to Anderson (hard as he tried, John just couldn’t seem to think of them as by their character names in his head, no matter how disturbing the results):

_And yet I wish but for the thing I have:_

_My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_

_My love as deep; the more I give to thee._

John didn’t blame the audience for loving Mary. She was mind-blowingly intense up there, completely believable and sincere. It was twice as impressive considering she was talking to Anderson. _Anderson,_ who picked his nose in class then wiped his finger off on the underside of his chair.

Eventually, the end of the first act approached. Mrs. Hudson had decided that the scene with Mercutio’s and Tybalt’s deaths would be a perfect middle point for their production, and John agreed. After seeing Sherlock (metaphorically) spill his guts up there, John certainly needed a break.

With each re-watching, John found ever more consistencies between Mercutio and Sherlock’s own character. Like Mercutio’s simultaneous charm and obstinacy in standing up to Tybalt:

“Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I!”

Jeff Hope seemed a bit off, tonight. He spoke his lines well enough, but his face was red and sweaty. John could see his discomfort from his position in the balcony. Did he have a bad case of stage fright? Sherlock did say that Hope wasn’t a trained actor.

Sherlock’s performance grew more manic as Mercutio began to threaten Tybalt.

“O calm, dishonorable, vile submission! Alla staccato carries it away!” Sherlock drew the toy gun from his waistband and brandished it like the epee Shakespeare intended it to be. “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?” He mocked Hope as he circled in perfect fencing formation, eyes affixed to Hope’s face.

“What wouldst thou have of me?” Hope asked tremulously as he drew his own weapon. The tone made John frown, the timid nature not at all in line with the vicious, derisive tone with which he’d previously imbued the line. Sherlock froze. Was he thrown by Hope’s deviation from rehearsal as well? It wasn’t like Sherlock to be affected by the poor performance of others.

“Good King of Cats, nothing but _Vatican cameos_ that I mean to make bold withal,” Sherlock replied. That wasn’t right. Sherlock continued his speech, but there was a soft buzzing in John’s ear as someone came over headset.

“Did Sherlock just mess up his line?” Greg asked, incredulous. “I don’t think that’s _ever_ happened. And ‘Vatican _cameos’_? That is not in the script, mate.”

_“A Vatican cameo,”_ he’d said.

John’s mind began to work furiously as he registered the words.

_“The wrong prop will ruin a performance.”_

He leapt from his seat, and began to scan the stage.

_The wrong prop._

There could only be one thing that Sherlock meant by saying that now.

_The gun._

Hope wasn’t holding the obviously plastic black gun prop that Sally had given him to use for the performance. This one was bigger, shiny and silver and _real._

John was running for the stairs before his conscious mind fully understood what was happening. He pressed the talk button on his wireless headset.

“Greg, listen to me. Jeff has a real gun.”

“What? What’re you-”

“ _Look at it, Greg!”_ John hissed, halfway down the stairs already. “Or don’t, but we don’t have time for this. Do what I say.” John had reached the lower audience and began a quiet sprint towards House Right, where a staircase lead straight onto the stage. “Greg, get ready to turn off the stage lights.”

“Draw Benvolio, beat down their weapons!” Anderson cried, and for once John was grateful for the bumbling stutter with which Anderson approached all of his dialogue.

Greg was sputtering nonsensically over headset. “Greg, you’ve got to cut the lights, as fast as you can! And Molly, can you make some feedback happen? That really high-pitched, shrill kind? I need all the distraction I can get.”

John was approaching the stage, sidling along the edge of the audience so he wouldn’t spook Hope.

“John, what are you going to do?” Molly asked, fear lacing the edges of her voice.

“What I have to. Once you’ve got the lights, one of you needs to call the police.”

John steeled himself as Anderson began a lumbering move intended to try and disarm ‘Tybalt’ before anyone ‘died.’ Except this time, Anderson had no idea of the real danger he was in.

“Greg, Molly, NOW!” John shouted as he leapt onto the edge of the stage. Hope whipped his head around and pointed his very real gun at John. John caught a split second of the panicked look on Hope’s face before everything went very dark at once. An artificial whine began to cleave the loudspeakers.

“What the hell?” John heard Anderson cry, the sentiment echoed in confused mutters by a few others onstage.

The dark did not deter John, as he’d spent the past two hours working in a dark space. He ignored the building intensity of the speakers’ sound as he rugby-tackled Jeff Hope. They both crashed to the ground. Once horizontal, he wrenched Hope’s right arm up above the boy’s head so that the gun was pointing to a (hopefully deserted) brick wall, opposite of the audience. Not a moment too soon, because a loud _CRACK_ split the air. Someone in the audience screamed, apparently realizing that this was real and not just exceptionally strange theatre.

“Mycroft! Summon your goons!” called Sherlock. John hoped Sherlock would get the hell out of the way sooner rather than later, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on how far away his friend’s voice had sounded, between the loudspeakers and his current predicament. Hope’s knee kicked up to land squarely in John’s gut, and John huffed, all the breath in his body leaving him. Hope squirmed out of John’s weakened hold, stood, and backed up several paces.

“Bit risky, isn’t this?” cried Sherlock’s voice, closer, the boy apparently just as defiant to unspoken requests as spoken ones. “Pulling out a gun in front of all these people?”

“You call this a risk?” screeched Hope. John pulled himself to his feet and watched the gun shake as it zeroed in on Sherlock’s voice. “You don’t get it, do you? I _have_ to do this. Or she’ll die!”

“Who?” John asked as he walked towards Sherlock. “Who’ll die?” He reached the Sherlock-shaped shadow and tugged it down. He hissed in the boy’s ear, “Get out of here. Now.”

“Not a chance,” breathed Sherlock. “Your sister will die, won’t she, Hope?” Sherlock called, louder now. “But who is it? Who wants you to kill _me_?”

“No one says his name. And I’m not gonna say it either! He said he’d save my sister, if I killed you. I’ve got to follow through on this. I’ve got to! Sorry, Holmes. I’d do anything, to save her.”

“Well, you’ll have to go through me, first!” John shouted, desperate to divert attention away from Sherlock, and trying to kill time before the police arrived.

“Enough chatter!” Hope shouted, deranged and hysterical. John shoved Sherlock heavily to the side, something in him instinctively understanding what was about to happen.

Another _CRACK_ echoed through the theater, loud and ruinous.

John staggered backwards and hit the ground. He was surprised for a moment that he was horizontal before understanding that he’d been shot.

The last thing John heard before he drifted away was a desperate cry.

_“JOHN!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- fun fact: the condom thing is real.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be the last one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in hospital. He has a few visitors.

John woke up in hospital. His shoulder throbbed a dull mantra and his mouth tasted  _revolting_ . He tried to sit up and call for a nurse, but pain seized through his shoulder at the movement. Looking down, John saw a white bandage wrapped tightly around his upper body and several wires crawling out his arms.

He craned his neck, looking for a call button, frantic for someone to explain exactly what was going on, but the room was dark, only dimly illuminated by the machines surrounding his cot. There was no one nearby, and judging by the dim lighting, John supposed it was the middle of the night.

If this were a cheesy romantic movie, John thought manically, Sherlock Holmes would be curled up in a chair next to John’s bed, waiting for him to wake up, there to explain everything as always.

_Sherlock. The show. The gun._ Was Sherlock okay? Memories of opening night were trickling back. He remembered wrestling with Hope, and Sherlock goading the boy like the idiot he was. He remembered a resounding _crack,_ and then—

Well, then he’d been shot.

John had been _shot._

What did that mean for his military career? Was he going to recover? Was everyone else okay? The beeping on John’s heart monitor sped up rapidly as John began to hyperventilate. John heard the brisk patter of footsteps and a nurse pulled open the hangings around his cot.

“Hello, dear,” said a kind-faced woman as she approached John’s bed. “You’ve woken up a few times, do you remember?” She asked him and flicked on an overhead light. She shone a flashlight into John’s pupils one by one and peered into his eyes. “You gave everyone quite the scare! A couple of friends have stopped by. Your young woman even tried to bully her way in earlier.” _Sounded like Mary._ The woman continued her examination with calm efficiency, talking all the while. She didn’t appear to need John’s response, so he relaxed into the warm soothing atmosphere of her chatter and its protective bubble. As long as this woman was talking about crap telly, there couldn’t be anything terribly wrong in the world.

John didn’t see when she increased his morphine drip. He drifted back to sleep.

 

* * *

Sherlock had catalogued eighteen waiting patients and their various ills and illnesses. He had deduced six secretaries and three nurses, counting three adulterers, two compulsive gamblers, and an online porn addict amongst them. But for the past hour, he had been silently staring at a small patch of ripped carpet between his feet. Eight hours, and it was nearing daylight, but there was still no word on John. Sherlock had repeatedly cycled through a series of frantic, unanswerable questions in his head. Was John still in surgery? Would the staff tell him when he came out? Why would they? Sherlock wasn’t anyone important to John, and he’d certainly made a nuisance of himself.

But still, he stayed.

He felt numb, and it had nothing to do with the bruises he’d sustained when John had pushed him to the ground. Pushed him aside so that he could take the bullet _himself._ The idiot. The _maddening_ idiot that could have died. That might _still_ die, although Sherlock rejected that thought immediately as a surge of nausea crashed through him. Sherlock feared what would become of him without John. In little more than two months, the boy had burrowed his way deep into Sherlock’s heart.

“Here. Drink.”

Sherlock looked up from the backs of his hands to see his brother’s arm outstretched, paper cup in hand.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked as he accepted the drink.

“Coffee. Black, two sugars. You looked like you needed it.”

Sherlock hummed as he sipped the brew. Not hospital coffee; Mycroft must have ventured out to a real cafe. Sherlock thought somewhere in the back of his mind that he ought to be annoyed at Mycroft’s interference. But he was strung out and too worried to summon up the energy for that.

“I’ve pulled some strings and had a chat with one of the surgeons.” Sherlock looked sharply at his brother, suddenly intensely interested in, even grateful for, his brother’s presence. “She believes John will pull through, and likely recover almost completely. He’s young and strong, after all.”

The sudden rush of relief Sherlock felt was devastating; he went from numb and in shock to choked sobs before his higher brain could stem the emotional outpour. Sherlock hated that Mycroft was seeing him like this, that he now had irrefutable evidence of Sherlock’s humanity. He waited to hear Mycroft’s motto, _caring is not an advantage_ , but it didn’t come.

Instead, a broad hand rested lightly on Sherlock’s upper back. It _broke_ something newly fragile in Sherlock, and in his 52 nd consecutive hour without sleep, Sherlock pressed his wet face into his big brother’s shoulder and shuddered out tears. Mycroft wrapped his arm around Sherlock and squeezed, his cheek resting on Sherlock’s head. Wrapped in Mycroft’s familiar scent, Sherlock felt safe.

He suddenly remembered being six, when after his first day of school he had bawled into Mycroft’s chest, heartsick at the discovery that he wasn’t like the other children.

As the shudders coursing through him slowed, Sherlock pulled back from the half-embrace. He and Mycroft sat in silence for long minutes as the clock ticked an even meter and Sherlock caught his breath.

“The police tell me that Jefferson Hope gave them the name of the man who supposedly forced him to bring the gun,” Mycroft began after a minute. Sherlock was thankful that they wouldn’t have to talk about his moment of weakness. “Moriarty, he called him. Police are looking into it, but they believe Moriarty to be nothing more than a fiction of Hope’s mental illness.”

Sherlock sighed as he turned over the new name in his head. _Moriarty_. “The police are useless. Perhaps I should do some investigating of my own.”

“Wait until John is recovered,” Mycroft suggested. “He might enjoy coming along. And I’d personally feel better to know that you were accompanied by such a devoted friend.” Mycroft did not do anything so obvious as to look pointedly at Sherlock. He simply tapped his umbrella on the floor beneath them. “You may be interested to hear that I’ve arranged for Child Protection to be informed about John’s father.”

“What! Mycroft, you should have let me-” Sherlock began heatedly, even as he realized that this must be the reason for the police officer outside John’s room.

“I did what I knew you were hesitating to do. It was the _right thing_. A boy that bright should not have to endure that. At any rate, I was simply returning a favor. He protected someone I love, and in return I protected him.”

Sherlock quieted at Mycroft’s oblique admission of love. It wasn’t something the Holmes brothers verbalized often. Tonight was a night to break all the rules. Sherlock decided to ignore Mycroft’s meddling for once, and returned the sentiment of love the best way he knew how.

“Thanks, My.”

Mycroft nodded curtly. Sherlock drank his coffee and settled in for a long wait, appreciative for once of his brother’s presence at his side.

 

* * *

 

The next time John woke up, it was daytime. Another nurse returned to tell John exactly what had happened in the day and a half since his injury. No one else had been hurt, and the police and ambulance had arrived shortly after John had passed out. Jeff Hope had been caught fleeing the scene.

The nurse showed John how to use the small hospital telly mounted in a corner and told him to watch the news for more information. The moment John saw the headline (‘ _All’s Well That Ends Well: Hero teen saves lives, gets shot in school shooting’)_ he turned it off. John thought that finding himself lauded as some kind of hero would be the worst news he received that day.

He was wrong.

The doctor monitoring his post-surgery recovery had apparently noticed the same bruising patterns that Sherlock had. He’d called Child Protection, who were due to visit in a couple of days when John had better recovered. John was grateful for the delay, but annoyed that this was happening at all. The only truly good thing that came out of this unfortunate development was the officer posted outside of John’s door.

John wasn’t sure whether or not he was ready to tell the truth to anyone about his dad just yet. He really believed that he could handle himself and his dad for the next year and a half. After this many years living with the bastard, he might as well stick it out. Where would he even go if they arrested his dad? Foster care? His mother was hardly fit to care for him. The woman just drank and wailed and cried. It was a miracle John’s father hadn’t turned on her over the years. John hated to admit it, but he wasn’t sure he would have found it in himself to put himself between her and his dad the way he had Harry.

The police interviewed John officially about what happened between him and Hope. John tried as best he could to remember, but so much of it was wrapped in a choke of panic and adrenaline. The police filled in some of the blanks John couldn’t.

They said that Hope had stopped taking his medication for schizophrenia and suffered a hallucinatory episode. As far as they knew, ‘Moriarty’ was an imagined villain, which Hope had created to help him cope with the illness of his sister. He was currently committed to a hospital for the mentally ill.

The police told him, just like the nurse had, that nobody but John and Hope had been injured in the altercation, but they weren’t able to provide any more details.

The next day, his doctor allowed John visitors. About bloody time, John was almost bored to _tears_ with nothing to do. One the police had interviewed John, he was useless. Greg was the first to visit.

“Greg,” John sighed, glad to see his friend but still groggy from the morphine dripping into his veins.

“Watson! You look bloody awful,” Greg said cheerfully. “But that’s to be expected. From what the papers say, you’re a bloody hero now. Nobody could actually _see_ what was happening on stage, mind you. But we’re all mighty curious. I’ve got cards from all your biggest fans.Greg pulled a stack of cards from his jacket and put them into John’s free hand. On the top of the stack was one from Molly, going by the hand-writing and vibrantly hand-colored flowers decorating it. “Molly couldn’t make it,” Greg gestured towards the card in question with a fond chuckle. Silence fell as John flipped through the cards. Nothing from Sherlock.

 “Did you really jump in front of a bullet?” Greg asked.

John felt fatigued at the thought of having to explain yet again what had happened that night.  “Could we not talk about that?” he sighed.

Greg looked sheepish. “Course, Watson. Sorry. Listen, besides wishing you well, I had another reason for coming to see you,” Greg said as he pulled up a chair to the side of John’s bed. “Sally’s mum is pulling her out of school next semester.”

“What?” John asked, startled. That wasn’t what he was expecting. “Why?”

“Oh, you know. Something about a kid storming the school with a gun and threatening to shoot everybody in it,” Greg answered breezily, before raising an eyebrow at John.

“Ah. Right,” John replied, awkward.

“Well, Sally moving away leaves _me_ without a protégé. And I was wondering whether you wanted to be my ASM for the spring musical. I wasn’t sure whether or not you were planning to continue with theatre after this show, especially with all this. But you’d make an ace stage manager. I’d have just the one semester to train you up, then you could step into my shoes and be the stage manager next year. I’m certain you’d pick it up right quick. The way you called those shots, kept your head cool when Hope was up there? That situation was easily ten times as stressful as any disaster that could happen during a show. Which is saying something.”

“Greg, that would be amazing!” John said truthfully. “But could you give me a bit to think about it?” He wasn’t ready to commit to anything just yet. “Brain injury, you know. Don’t want to make any big decisions right now.” John wasn’t severely concussed, but he’d milk this hospital visit for all it was worth.

“Of course, mate,” Greg replied. “And I understand not wanting to talk about what happened, but can we at _least_ talk about how you’ve got the hots for Sherlock?”

“What!” John yelped. The heart monitor next to his bed alerted Greg to his rising pulse rate. Damned machine.

“I was kidding, Watson! I was going to make a joke about taking a bullet for the bloke,” Greg said as he shot a surprised look towards the heart monitor. “But maybe we need to have a chat. You know, man to man, SM to potential-ASM. _Do_ you have the hots for Sherlock?”

John sighed. He was doing an awful lot of that today. He honestly did not have the energy to lie convincingly to Greg. Especially if his heartrate was going to be jumping all over the place like this. He settled on a, “Maybe. Mind if we raincheck that conversation too?”

Greg looked curious enough to burst, but he nodded to John. “You got it Watson…So, you get anything good on this TV of yours?”

“Nah, it’s mostly coverage about some dumb kid who jumped in front of a bullet.”

 

* * *

Mary was next.

“You stupid, noble, reckless, idiot!”

“Mary, you’re choking me!” John gasped. “And if my stitches tear, you’re answering to my doctor for it.”

When Mary pulled away from the fierce hug, there were tears in her eyes. She wiped them away at once, her scowl daring John to mention them. “I just care about you. And that’s a difficult job, considering the stupid things you do.” Mary perched on the side of John’s hospital cot and put a warm hand against John’s cheek. Touch-starved, John leaned into it.

“I’m sorry, Mary.”

“You’re not,” Mary disagreed.

John thought about it. “You’re right, I’m not. Someone had to do _something_ , and I couldn’t just stand there and watch Hope kill Sherlock.” An echo of the panic he’d felt chased through John’s mind. Where was Sherlock? John needed to see him, to see for himself that the boy hadn’t been hurt.

“Sherlock’s doing okay, John. He’s a bit shaken up and pretending not to be. Kind of charming, really, that male stoicism. A lot like someone else I know.”

She eyed John knowingly. “I can see what you like in him,” she continued as if this were not hideously embarrassing for John. “He’s gorgeous, of course, but smart as a whip too. And just _gone_ on you.”

John’s stomach coiled at these words as he fought down a smile. “What makes you say that? As far as he’s concerned I’m some prick who flirts with other people when he’s already got a girlfriend.”

 “Well there’s the fact that he’s been sitting in the waiting room for days, going by the state of his clothing.,” Mary inspected her manicure, disinterest belied by the side-eyed glance she sent John’s way.

“He’s out in the…why hasn’t he come in?” John cried, neck craning for a glimpse out the small window in his door, as if Sherlock might be standing there. How long had Sherlock been sitting outside, mere feet away and not coming to see John?

“Afraid, I expect,” Mary said. She’d always had an uncanny ability to read emotions in those around her, but John scoffed at this idea.

“Sherlock, afraid?”

“John, I want out of our deal.”

“What?” John startled at the abrupt change in topic.

“When you agreed to let me help you, when you let me pretend to be your girlfriend, you did it on one condition. That either of us could back out, no questions asked. If we felt uncomfortable, or if circumstances changed, or if one of us met someone we actually wanted to date.” Mary sighed. “The deception is hurting you, it’s hurting me, and it’s hurting Sherlock. You’ve got to tell him the truth, John.”

John stared, silent.

“I’m so tired of watching you wallow around, pining and afraid of taking a leap. It hurts. Our agreement only worked so long as there wasn’t anybody else in the picture. You know _I_ won’t care if you date a boy. Your friends won’t, either. The only person you really need to keep it quiet around is your dad.”

“I’m not so sure he’ll be a problem anymore, actually.”

There was a brief silence in which John considered Mary’s words and Mary considered something else. She asked, “Did you finally tell someone about him, then?”

“What?”

“Did you tell someone that he hits you?” Mary clarified flatly, as though it did not shatter John to hear the words.

“You _knew?_ How? How long? Mary, I-”

“It doesn’t take a genius, John,” Mary snapped. “And we’ve been friends practically since birth.”

“Eleven years.”

“Eleven years! We’ve been friends _eleven years._ We’re as good as blood, better than in some cases, and you can sure as hell bet I noticed when you came to class stiff after ‘arguments’ with him, that you wear long sleeve shirts all summer, and that when you meet someone new, you stand up military-straight and assess them for threat.” Mary’s sharp eyes dared John to deny it.

“Mary…”

“I never told anyone. I decided to let you deal with it, so long as it didn’t get worse. Maybe I should have-” Mary choked. “Maybe I should have done something, and maybe I’ll always regret not doing that, a bit, but… I thought you needed me as a friend more than an informant.”

John felt a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. He wasn’t typically this emotional; he decided to blame it on the medication. “I love you, Mary. If I had told anyone, it would’ve been you first. The doctors figured it out straight away and they told Child Protection. Someone’s stopping by tomorrow.”

“You aren’t planning on doing anything idiotic like lying to them, are you?” Mary asked.

John hesitated and tried to think of a response. His silence told her enough.

“John _Hamish_ Watson. Don’t you _dare_ lie to them. You deserve a million times better than that creep who gets to call himself your dad. You deserve love and kindness and _everything_ good. Promise me you’ll tell them the truth, John.”

John was silent. He thought of people pitying him, whispering about him. The weakling, the emotional wreck, the _victim_.

“ _Promise me,_ John _._ ” Mary said, fierce and earnest. “Please.”

“I promise,” John said. He owed it to Mary. He would do this for her because she loved him, and he her. John pulled Mary in for a hug so tight the throbbing in his shoulder stopped mattering. “ _I promise_.”

Eventually Mary pulled back and wiped away her tears. “Enough of this. There’s someone else you need to talk to, isn’t there? I think I’ll just go fetch him.” John laughed. The glint in her eyes bode ill for Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock slunk into the room with his eyes to the floor like he was trying not to be noticed.

John couldn’t help the stupid grin pulling at his cheeks. “Hey, you.” Sherlock looked like a disaster; Mary had been right. His hair was lank and greasy and his face was smeared with days-old stage makeup. His clothes were wrinkled and stained in several places.

“Hello, John. How are you?”

John rolled his eyes at the forced formality. “Fine, you dolt. How are you? I’ve been asking the nurses for days but they haven’t been able to tell me when you were released.”

“A couple of hours after the incident. Thanks to your rash stupidity I was treated for nothing more severe than shock.”

“’Rash stupidity? What, no thank you?” John said, sarcastic.

“No. Emphatically not.”

“Good. I’ve had entirely too much of that.” John sniffed and they shared a small smile. Sherlock sat gingerly in the seat next to John’s bed. John itched to reach out and take Sherlock’s hand, but he resisted.

“Have you decided what you’re going to tell Child Protection?”

It almost didn’t shock John, being read like that. _Almost_. “Deduced that, have you?”

“Don’t avoid the question, John.”

“The truth. I promised Mary, I’ll tell them the truth.”

Sherlock gave a single satisfied nod. Then, “Mary knew?”

“Apparently. I didn’t tell her, she just figured it out on her own. Looks like you’ve got some competition in the deduction game.” John wondered how many people—friends, teachers, strangers, had read it on him, perhaps years ago, when it had started. John thought he’d been hiding it well, but apparently not.

John and Sherlock sat together quietly for a few long minutes. It was a comfortable, companionable silence. At least until John’s stomach rudely interrupted. He glanced at the clock to see that it was already past six o’ clock.

“Are you hungry?” John asked, looking for the remote that would call a nurse.

“Are you asking me to dinner, John?” Sherlock asked with a quirked smile.

“I might be. Well?”

“Surprisingly, starving.” He looked it, gaunt and hollow-cheeked. Had the boy eaten at all in the days since John went into surgery?

“Great. I know a place. They serve red jell-o on Tuesdays. And on every other day.”

Sherlock laughed. Together they polished off a meal his nurse carried in. They talked aimlessly about hospital food and bees and science experiments. John had just brought up Greg’s offer to be assistant stage manager when Sherlock cracked.

“What happened when the lights went out? How did you know what to do?” Took Sherlock longer than John thought it would. Truthfully he’d expected the boy to come storming in the moment John was cleared for visitors, demanding answers.

“You were the one that tipped me off. _Vatican cameos_ , remember? How did _you_ know?” John countered.

Sherlock scoffed. “I know a real gun when I see one. But after that, how were you able to see in the dark?”

“I already told the police,” John couldn’t help but tease, faced with Sherlock’s voracious curiosity.

“Yes, I know. But they wouldn’t tell me anything! Just information that was on the news already.” Sherlock’s frustration rolled off of him in waves, to John’s amusement. “I couldn’t see _anything_ once the lights went out, it was completely dark! It doesn’t make any sense, what you did. Unless of course you have some secret superpowers I didn’t know about, in which case, you’ve been holding out on me.”

John laughed. “I haven’t been holding out on you, I swear. It wasn’t all that complicated. I figured stalling Hope was our best option, so I told Greg to kill the lights and Molly to give some feedback, and I ran downstairs to run interference with the bastard.” John shrugged. “It was pretty simple.”

“But how did you know you’d be able to see anything in the dark?”

John hesitated. “It’s going to sound stupid.”

“Most things you say do, John, yet here I am. Try me.”

“Fine.” John feigned extreme reluctance while secretly finding Sherlock’s intensity charming. “When I was a little kid, I really liked pirates. They had the best adventures, you know.” Sherlock blinked rapidly at John’s bedside, but John continued. “I read every book on them I could get my hands on. One of those books explained why pirates are always wearing eyepatches. It wasn’t because of missing eyeballs. They kept one eye behind a patch to make sure it was always accustomed to the dark, in case they needed to see underneath the deck of the ship during the day. I figured the same concept would apply to me, being able to see in the dark after working in the dark balcony for a couple of hours…” John’s speech halted when he saw the expression on Sherlock’s face. Something like…awe?

“John Watson.” It was nothing but a whisper. All at once Sherlock surged forward and fastened his lips to John’s in a bruising, inelegant kiss. John blinked as he processed what was happening. Just as his mind caught up with his body, Sherlock pulled away.

“I-” was all that Sherlock managed to vocalize before John grabbed him by the hair and tugged him back in. The rest of his sentence was lost to a muffled groan as John’s tongue breached Sherlock’s open mouth. Sherlock’s kiss was messy and graceless and determined. Joy sang through John’s veins as he clutched Sherlock’s curls and nipped at his plush lower lip.

Sherlock pulled back a hair, enough to gasp, “John.” John captured his lips once again, but Sherlock was undeterred. They settled for a volley of brief words and soft nips and licks. “Wait…I shouldn’t…what about…you can’t…Mary!” At last Sherlock pulled fully away. His face was flushed and the haze in his eyes was clearing rapidly.

John scratched behind his ear, embarrassed. “Yeah, I figured that would come up.”

“You ‘figured’ that the subject of your _girlfriend_ would ‘come up’ after kissing me? Brilliant deduction John. Truly.” Sherlock looked unimpressed.

“Hey, you kissed me, prat!” John replied.

“And you kissed me back!”

“Yeah! I did!” This conversation sounded a lot like an argument, but John noticed that its content was not particularly scathing.

Sherlock faltered. “Why did you?” He looked so earnest and confused. John wanted to kiss him again. But they needed to talk first.

“Because I think you’re spectacular,” John said truthfully.

He paused, but Sherlock did not appear to have a response to that. John could nearly _see_ the gears whirring at hyper-speed under that gorgeous head of curls.

“…Did I mention that I’m bisexual and that Mary isn’t really my girlfriend?”

“WHAT!”

“Should I have led with that?”

“John Watson, you _have_ been holding out on me.”

“Yeah, I know.” John grinned and hauled Sherlock in for another kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! And thanks for all of the wonderful responses-- they made it extra fun to post my first-ever fic.
> 
> I'm considering a sequel, because in the spring there'll have to be a musical... ;)
> 
> If you're interested in reading a sequel, let me know what show you'd like to see Sherlock star in. Beauty and the Beast? Grease? Les Mis? Something entirely different? :) comment to vote!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first (published) fic. Kind words/constructive criticism welcome! -pfinch


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